


Enjolras Alone Was Not Struck

by akanemi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, My intention is to gradually add the rest of les amis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akanemi/pseuds/akanemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 2013, Paris.</p><p>Enjolras comes back to Paris after a few years of voluntary exile at Oxford University and meets Combeferre, a Philosophy student. They become interested in each other political views and have the will to make their ideas happen. Meanwhile Courfeyrac and Grantaire enjoy Paris' night and Jehan tries to keep them all calm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pilot

The day woke up clear and serene. The sky was cloudless and the sun bright, a typically Spring day in Paris. The streets were nearly empty and the air was cool, and walking to the University through the large avenue was a pleasure in a day like that. The students gathered in small groups before the grand doors of the faculty, sitting on the grass or just sitting on the benches dispersed around the campus. Their voices and laughter impregnated the air and raised the spirit of the passers-by.

Grantaire yawned with his mouth open, like a puppy, scratching his dark and curly hair, his bag on his back and his hand in his pocket. He walked looking down at the floor, kicking some stones here and there, getting distracted by his own thoughts, half asleep half hangover. He was the image of passivity itself, the little bastard.

-          Hey! R! Here!

He looked up with a frown.

Courfeyrac and Jehan were sitting on one of the tables, and the first was moving his arms inviting him to approach them. He sighed. It was too early for social intercourse.

-          Man, what the hell happened to you? You look terrible- mocked Courf, hitting his arm and laughing at his tired expression.- Is that how well you tolerate alcohol, bro?

-          Leave him alone, Fey... - said Jehan, seeing that Grantaire was not in the mood.

-          Oh, come on! – he protested, pouting like a child.

Jehan ignored him and turned his eyes to the book he was reading. His light blue eyes were especially bright that day, and his always timid smile made his sweet expression even sweeter. Courfeyrac looked at him for a few seconds and patted his head, caressing the blonde hair gently.

-          You are so adorable, you little puppy.

Courfeyrac looked at him with his wide, sincere and carefree smile. His dark hair made him look even paler than he was, and his big dark blue eyes and little nose made him look like a character out of a Shakespearean comedy. Jehan liked to call him Puck. He shrugged and let him be. Nobody could ever deny anything to Jehan.

The bells of Saint Michel started ringing and they sprung up the table and ran to class. Grantaire stopped to buy a coffee in the vending machine before getting to his Art class and got in the class a quarter of hour late with the cup in his hands. The professor looked at him with a bored expression.

-          I am not even surprised, Grantaire. Take a seat and grab your materials.

Grantaire obeyed, took a seat in the back row and got his pens out of the bag. He sat with his legs open and his back inclined in the chair, his drawing block reclined on the table and his blue eyes fixed on the model. Today the object of his attention was to be a magnificent bouquet, standing in the centre of the room.

 

-          Fucking flowers again- he muttered.

* * *

 

When the door opened, five minutes after the start of the class, all faces turned towards the newcomer. He seemed not to notice the attention awoken by his arrival, nor the looks their class mates were giving each other. He stood tall, proud and formal before the class, looking for a free seat in the crowd.

Combeferre frowned. He didn’t seem to remember such a guy in his degree, and he was known to have a prodigious memory. He went back to his notes, taking them quickly and precisely with neat handwriting. A few seconds afterwards he noticed the young man had sat down next to him. He looked at him with curiosity. His skin was clear, and his eyes were the colour of a summer day. His expression was formal and severe, and he had the hair you’d presume an angel would have. Golden curls fell to his shoulders. He noticed he was looking at him, and returned his look directly.

-          I’m Combeferre. Jean-Jacques Combeferre.- Combeferre offered his hand.

-          Enjolras.

They shook hands.

-          I had never seen you before. Is this your first day here?

Enjolras nodded.

-          I’ve been transferred from Oxford University. I started studying Political Science here but a few years ago I went to England to continue my studies there.

-           Why did you...? - started to ask Combeferre, not wishing to make him uncomfortable.

He seemed extremely tranquil as he looked straight at him and answered.

-          I had to leave the country for a while.

-          Right. - Combeferre stared at his notebook.- Well, if I may be of any help in your readjustment to the University, do let me know.

-          I thank you, although I am quite sure I’ll be all right.- said he, in a civil tone.

The conversation stopped abruptly when the whole auditorium started talking at the same time, due to some unpopular remark from the lecturer.  Combeferre had lost track of the class. He left the pen on the table, slightly annoyed. There was something in this man... Something in the way he talked, the way he walked. There was something in his eyes and in his expression. He frowned again. He didn’t like things that escaped his accurate reasoning. 


	2. About cafés and riots

Courfeyrac woke up all of a sudden on one of the tables of the common room of his students’ residence.

A dim light surrounded him. He stretched his arms yawning, touching his hair with the apathy of a sloth. He lurched towards the passage where his room was, opened the door and let himself fall on the bed.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

Jehan sat up in the bed and turned on the light.

“COURFEYRAC, WHAT ON EARTH?!”

Courf sunk his face in the duvet.

“Mndsdfjfdg”

“IT’S THREE IN THE MORNING”

“sowhat”

Jehan rubbed his eyes and touched his shoulder delicately.

“What have you been doing? Studying?”

“Watchinporn”

“…”

The poet sighed with resignation, kicked his head with a soft blow and lay down again, covering himself with the duvet.

“Good night Courf.”

“Nn... wait”

Courfeyrac groaned and made what seemed to be a superhuman effort to lay his head next to his and get inside the duvet. He grabbed Jehan’s skinny body and tightened him up against his chest, burying his face in his hair.

Jehan blushed and felt butterflies in his stomach –again-. He’d never manage to get used to Courf’s manners. He stood there, his eyes open like plates, his heart out of control, feeling his warmth, his arms embracing him, his lips against his back. That was Courf, impulsive and charming, he never thought twice about anything. He would arrive to the room with two Erasmus students one day and disappear for a week the next, only to return saying that he felt like visiting their friends in Italy. Courfeyrac was like a big bear, he needed human contact, and he fed on laughter and good vibes. He loved everybody and everybody loved him, and his ways to prove his affection went from a favour to an inappropriate hug in the middle of the night. That was Courf’s way, and Jehan appreciated him and tolerated them.

* * *

 

Grantaire woke up at the insufferable noise of the trash truck. He covered his face with his hands, moaning. His back ached as if he had been sleeping on the floor.

Well. He had.

He tried to sit up but his head was spinning, so he just sighed and stood silent on the unfamiliar surface wishing he were dead.

He ignored the sound of firm steps approaching. 

“Who in the name of all that is holy are you and what on the seven circles of Dante’s Inferno are you doing on MY café’s floor?!”

He looked up between his fingers in order to see through the hands in his face.

A young woman stooped looking at him with her hands on her hips, her eyebrows frowned, her dirty blond curly hair framing a little heart-shaped face, scarlet lips puckered, eyes the colour of honey bright with a mixture of distrust and sincere curiosity.

“There is no such thing as holy.” Grantaire muttered with a sarcastic smile.

She kicked his leg.

“Get out of here, drunkard.”

The young woman reached out her hand to help him get on his feet. Grantaire took it and stood up groaning.

“I’m Maddie”

Grantaire looked at her with only one eye open. He shrugged.

“Nic. Nic Grantaire.”

“And what happened to you, if I may ask? And let me tell you I MAY.”

Maddie opened the blinds and the clear light of the morning lighted up the cosy café. She then turned on the coffee machines and started making a strong one for the mysterious student who sat in the stool with his head against the bar.

Grantaire uttered a rough laugh.

 “To be honest, I don’t remember.”

Maddie raised her eyebrows and smirked.

“That’s so bohemian of you. Now you’ll tell me you that are a painter and that you live in somebody’s attic surrounded by books about Philosophy and three cats.”

Grantaire didn’t answer. He rubbed his eyes and hid a grin.

“Here. Drink.”

Maddie gave him the coffee.

“What time is it?”

He grabbed the mug with both hands and inspired the aroma. It made him feel better.

“It’s half past six. Is it too early for an artist to wake up? Do forgive me, next time I shall cover you with a blanket and let you rest until one.” 

“I should get going.”

“Yes, the Arts need you.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Paint me like one of your French girls, Nicolas.”

“ …”

Grantaire took the mug and left the café slamming the door after him. Maddie looked at him leave with an amused smile. Then she realised he had left with her mug and without paying.

“YOU BETTER COME BACK, BOHEMIAN, OR I SWEAR I’LL FIND YOU IN YOUR HIPSTER CAVE!”

* * *

 

Combeferre arrived ten minutes before the start of the lecture and sat close to the door. 

He stretched his legs and played with the pen in his hand. 

As the amphitheatre started to get crowded with noisy students, he kept an eye on the entrance and another on his book, tapping nervously with the pen on the folder. He remembered him - his light blue eyes, his always formal appearance, his enraged speeches. Alexandre Enjolras, the leader of the student movement in Paris, put in prision as scapegoat for the violent assaults of 2009. He had checked his newspaper notes, and there he was, the same Enjolras of a week before, looking at the camera with a frown and an impressive countenance that made him feel a deep and unexpected feeling of admiration. 

The lecturer appeared and the class begun. 

“Hey.”

He looked over his shoulder, and there he was, the same Enjolras. He smiled and nodded.

“Hi.”

He looked for something to say, but it all seemed meaningless. He bit his lip and turned towards the stage. The young man sat next to him and started to take notes. Enjolras seemed calm and focused on the lesson, and Combeferre, relaxed and balanced as he was, had no trouble in get into the professor’s speech and forget about the troubles involving his classmate.

They listened in silence. He waited until the lecture was over. He put his notebook in the bag, slowly, at his pace, while he considered what to say and how to say it. When he seemed to be about to leave, he raised up his head, looking at him directly.

“Eh, Enjolras I… I wanted to talk with you. Do you have a minute?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“It’s hum… Would you care for a cup of coffee?”

 

They left the University and walked towards the Musain.


	3. The Light and the Compass, Part I

Maddie was cleaning the teacups from the morning drinkers when the door opened with a clatter of tiny bells. She saw two tall young students, one of them astonishingly gorgeous, and whistled to herself in admiration. His dignified countenance contrasted harmoniously with his almost feminine face where golden curls fell before his blue eyes. The other was… Combeferre.

“Ah! My old friend the philosopher!”

She left the cups in the sink and jumped over the bar, walking towards them while looking for the little notebook in her apron’s front pocket.

“What can I get ‘cha?”

She leaned on the table, her cleavage improperly near Enjolras’s view. Combeferre had to bite his lip in order not to smile at this.

“Good old Maddie, it’s nice to see you. A cup of coffee for me, please.”

“Coffee, a-ha. And for you, Greek god on Earth?”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows, astonished.

“Excuse me?”

Combeferre facepalmed, hiding a smile.

“For the sake of my sanity, Mad, get a hold of yourself”

He said in a sweet voice, half mockingly. 

“How can I?” She exclaimed, pointing at Enjolras. “Have you seen him?”

“Hello? I can hear you.”

“I have.” Combeferre said, naively.

“…”

“ …”

Both Maddie and Enjolras stared at him.

“…”

“You  _have.”_

 Maddie raised her eyebrows and draw an amused smile.

_“_ I, uh, I mean I have seen him. Wi-with my eyes. I mean, I was answering to your question as if it were not a rhetorical question, joking. I was joking. Jesus, Maddie, bring me that coffee.”

“Yes, sir! ...Oh boy, you are blushing! That is _so adorable_!”

“You put me in a very awkward position, and yes I got nervous when I realized how you had misunderstood by words and therefore I seem to be blushing.”

“I can’t argue with you. Anyway...”

She turned towards Enjolras.

“Golden curls, what can I offer you?”

He ignored the name.

“I’ll have a coffee too.”

“Two coffees. Cooooming.”

Enjolras faced Combeferre.

“You brought me here. What’s the matter?”

Combeferre gulped. He felt his inquisitive look fixed in his eyes and looked away.

“I uh… I worked on a paper on the philosophy of the Revolution of 1789 last year, for our History course and… I wanted to compare the motivations from the past with the ones with the future and how the times have changed and people have evolved with them.”

“Where do I appear in all of this?”

“2009. March of 2009. The violent assaults and strikes in Saint Michel.”

Combeferre took out of his back the notebook with the pictures and notes of this event, and showed it to him.

Enjolras smirked with pride.

“I see.”

Combeferre gulped again. 

“I… I recognised you from the pictures. You were the scapegoat the police got, I-“

“You got this wrong.”

Enjolras interrupted him abruptly. Combeferre stood puzzled, looking at him.

“I was not the scapegoat. I was the mind behind it and the face before it.”

“It was all your doing?”

Enjolras leaned back in the chair, playing with a little stick in his slender fingers, his eyes fixed on Combeferre, his chin raised, and the shadow of a melancholic and proud smile on his lips. 

“All Revolutions are uprisings. Uprisings of the oppressed, who get sick of the status quo and choose the path of civil disobedience, a way to get out of this choking system. The people have the power, so much power that it may turn into chaos, and chaos is destruction.”

His eyes ablaze with passion, his voice gifted with the candour of the ones who are born to be orators.

“That’s why they need a leader.”

Enjolras nodded, with a hint of unexpected humility.

“A leader is somebody who is able to rise, direct and take the consequences of his actions upon his shoulders. I can do that. I want to do it. It’s my right and my duty.”

“Your duty? Do you see it as a personal crusade?”

“It is everybody’s duty. As citizens, as members of this society, we must stand up and speak out. Whatever the price. I don’t see it as an _individual_ crusade, but as a fight of the people for the people, it is our legacy to the future, not only for Paris but for the World. The work started today is the reality of tomorrow. We must progress, at any cost. If I go to prison for representing the ideas I defend, I welcome it gladly. They will not keep me quiet by prosecuting me or putting me before a jury.”

Maddie came with the coffees, which gave a few seconds to Combeferre to reorganize his thoughts. Enjolras took the cup and drank quietly, apparently lost in his mind. At last the first decided to speak.

“I agree with you.”

He started, with a firm and decided voice.

“I concur in the idea of the necessity, right and duty of the Revolution, as much as with the need this Revolution has of a leader, although I... I think there are better ways to carry it out. ”

Enjolras pursed his lips.

“Is that so?”

He nodded, ignoring his tone.

“What use is the fight for when you ended up in a trial? How successful was it without a real and thoughtful organization? I see the flaws in 2009, I see its faults and I see the solutions to it.”

His interlocutor was looking straight at him, clearly interested.

“We need a plan, we need a backup, a study of the situation and a clear path of action to follow.”

“Interesting.”

“What is interesting?”

“Besides your point of view and your ideas to improve… You said “we””

Combeferre draw a little smile.

“I did.”

“Are you in?”

 His voice was slightly excited, a lower tone, and his bright eyes betrayed him.

“I am so in.”

Enjolras offered him a sincere and wide smile and offered his hand to him.

“Welcome abroad, guide.”

He shook his hand with another smile.

“Let’s sail this ship, leader.” 


End file.
